"My dear, she was in the way. She worried you and you worried me. I don't like being worried."
"Don't, Clare! I hate you to talk like that--even in fun. It's--it's so cold-blooded."
"In fun!" Clare laughed lightly. Alwynne's youthful severity amused her. But she had gone, she perceived, a trifle too far. "Well, then, in earnest--joking apart----"
Alwynne's face relaxed. Of course, she had known all along that Clare was in fun....
"Joking apart--it was time for Miss Vigers to go. I admit saying what I thought to Miss Marsham. I am quite ready to take responsibility. She was too old--too fussy--too intolerant--I can't stand intolerance. She had to go."
"Clare, you remind me of a man I met, down at Compton. You ought to get on together. He's great on tolerance too. So tolerant that five hundred years ago he'd have burned every one who wasn't as tolerant as he. As it is, he shrugs them out of existence, _à la_ Podsnap. Just as you did Miss Vigers just now."
"Don't know--only met him once. But he tickled me awfully. He hadn't the faintest idea how funny he was."
"My dear Clare--could any one snub me? You might as well snub a rubber ball."
"Yes, you're pretty thick-skinned." Clare paid her back reflectively.
"Am I? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. How, just now?"
"Well, for one thing, you needn't flavour your conversation exclusively with Denes. They bore me worse than if they had an 'a' in them."
"I'm sorry." Alwynne paused. Then she plucked up courage. "Clare, I stayed there two months. The Dene people are my friends, my great friends. I don't think you need sneer at them."
"I wonder you ever came back, if they're so absorbing. What is the particular attraction there, by the way? The old women or the young men?"
"Clare, what has happened? What is the matter with you nowadays? Why are you grown so different? Why are you always saying unkind things?"
"Really, Alwynne, I am not accustomed to be cross-examined. Such a bore, giving reasons. Besides, I haven't got any. Oh, don't look such a martyr."
"I think I'll go home," said Alwynne in a low voice. "I don't think you want me."
Clare settled herself more comfortably in the comfortable Chesterfield as she watched Alwynne out of the room. She lay like a sleepy cat, listening to the muffled sounds of Alwynne's packing; let her get ready to her hat and her gloves and the lacing of her boots, before she called her back, and played with her, and forgave her at the last. Yet she found Alwynne less pliable than usual: convicted of sin, she was yet resolved on departure, if not to-day--no, of course she would not go to-day, after behaving so ill to her Clare--then, the day following. That would be Friday--a completed fortnight--and Saturday was Clare's birthday--had Clare forgotten? Alwynne hadn't, anyhow. Oh, she must come for Saturday, and what would Elsbeth say to that? There must be one evening, at least, given to Elsbeth in between. After all, it was jolly dull for Elsbeth all by herself.